July 18th from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
In the Sahel, a drought is defined as a period of two years without rain. In the UK the Met Office is more liberal in its notions and a drought in the UK is defined as a period of fifteen days with less than 2mm rain. Here on the WestCliff it has now been three weeks since there was any prcipitation so it is officially a drought, And that is easy to see. The soil here is thin and sandy and we are on top of a cliff so there is very liittle moisture. The grass is entirely parched and the little green prostrate plants have retreated to tiny green tufts among the pale straw, Larger plants are flagging and the leaves and stems have lost all rigidity and lie swooning like an Edwardian Lady without a parasol. The large dry orange leaves of the Sweet Chestnut are deep on the paths. The sky is as blue as the eyes of a china doll and there is no relief from the sun. All picnickers have retreated to what shade there is, although the beach is still packed and the verges littered with illegally parked cars. As the vegetation wilts, though, we are treated to the sight of butterflies principally skippers. These little brownish butterflies get their name because they are continually on the move, flitting from plant to plant so that they become impossible to photograph. Chief among these are our own Lulworth Skipper which is mainly found in Dorset and has pretty orangey underwings.. Worth watching out for. #bournemouth #westcliffgreen #July #summer #drought #butterflies #lulworthskipper
From July 18th 2017
Thunder storms off Ushant working their way up Channel off the Brest peninsular. Stand by.The lightning goes zzip***** The Thundergoes bip, the rain goes drip, the people go trip.
From July 18th 2016
What a burden it is to carry hate all the time. What a wearying millstone to have upon your shoulders. Because those who hate seem to hate everything and with an intensity that would be unbearable for the rest of us. Your only moment of approval is of something that is contrary to your hate objects. The hater hates in depth and with passion. The bile must churn the guts and inflict real pain. Your muscles knotted with anger must never release. Your veins throb and pop. At night you must lie down in anticipation of a near sleepless night permeated with a bleak carnival of nightmarish images of all those who have offended. At first we might find your loud pronouncements amusing in a sort of eyebrow-raising way, we might think you are being bitterly ironical. But no, it is hate, thorough and all-encompassing. I might be irritated or annoyed at times. I may see Armageddon on the horizon but I cannot stir the depth of emotion that you have access to. All I can do is to try to understand when things are not to my liking. Perhaps those things that distress you so deeply may not originate outside but be part of your own inner turmoil.
